


You've Got a Hunger

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Surrender 'Verse [5]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Consent Issues, Humiliation kink, M/M, Pain Kink, Porn with Feelings, Rank Disparity, Rape Fantasy, Rough Sex, dom/sub themes, everyone has a good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 17:57:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12325980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: The morning after. In which Hamilton enjoys the agonies his general has inflicted, and Washington fucks his boy again.





	You've Got a Hunger

Hamilton wakes abruptly, as he always does. Sudden awareness, his mind rising instantly from sleep to wakeful clarity, dream fading so fast he can't remember what it was about.

His body aches, perfect glimmers of pain that ignite at the slightest movement.

The bed is warm beneath him, but it's _nothing_ to the quiet inferno of his general's chest pressed tight along his back. The arm draped over his hip keeps hold of him even in sleep, circling his waist and crushing him close. Washington breathes steady and low, warmth tickling the nape of his neck.

The nudge of a hard cock between his thighs is easy enough to ignore for the moment—a promise for later.

There is no hint of dawn. Hamilton has always slept lightly, and as little as possible. He doesn't like to waste time that could be better spent, regardless of foolish physical needs like food and rest.

He doesn't mind sleeping nearly as much, now that he does it naked in Washington's bed, his own bedroll laid out untouched in the corner. But Hamilton still wakes every morning long before dawn. Ready in an instant to begin his day and his work.

Today he sets those things aside and burrows farther into Washington's arms. He's more tired than usual, and the sun will not be up for at least an hour, perhaps longer. For once he has no partial drafts gnawing on his thoughts. There will be work enough later, but in this moment he's not thinking of such things.

Sated languor twines through him, a calm that follows only the most vicious of satisfactions. It won't last—his frenetic energy will cut through the quiet soon enough—but for the moment Hamilton is content. Even peaceful. And he's in no hurry to remove himself from this bed.

Behind him Washington shifts and sighs without waking, spooning all the closer behind him. The movement creates friction, welcome and uncomfortable, over Hamilton's abused skin. His ass, his thighs, his lower back—all of these are places he finds himself achingly aware of. They burn with heat, angry bruises he will be wearing for days.

He shivers at the memory of earning them—the loud slap of leather against vulnerable flesh—the muffled echo of his own sobs as Washington brought the belt down with calculated strength. Over and over and over. An unpredictable rhythm, taking Alexander apart as only his general can.

Those are not the only fresh bruises he's sporting. There are lesser aches scattered elsewhere, and Hamilton breathes a low sigh as he catalogues the best and worst of them. The bites he will wear like badges of honor. Some will be easy to hide. Others are less discreet. There will be the unmistakable imprint of teeth shaping the darkest marks along his throat.

It's fortunate that Tench Tilghman will be gossiping about his absence from headquarters last night.

His ass aches delightfully with even the slightest movement—Washington used him roughly when he finished meting out strokes of the belt—and Hamilton's face warms. He smiles to himself at the thought of just how much Washington enjoys seeing him cry.

There are other marks. They are everywhere, stamped into his skin every place Washington grabbed him, took him, held him down. His arms are dusted with bruises, his wrists purpling in dark bracelets. His hips are a mess of older markings, many of them fading beneath newer patterns.

There is little Hamilton loves more than the sensation of his body bruising as Washington holds him down.

His general stirs behind him now, arm tightening around him. Hamilton leans into the embrace. He brushes against the hard nudge of Washington's cock just to hear the low moan as Washington ruts sleepily forward.

"Good morning," Hamilton murmurs, rocking back more deliberately.

" _Alexander_." Washington presses a kiss behind his jaw. "You're still here." He sounds pleased. Hamilton is often _not_ still in Washington's bed when the general wakes. Too busy, too driven, too full of energy. That he hasn't yet risen and dressed speaks to how thoroughly exhausted last night's activities left him.

And how perfect the hurts inflicted.

"Are you all right?" Washington sounds decidedly more awake now. "Did I hurt you?" The question is a game, in its way. A flirtatious tease. Of course Hamilton is hurt. Washington's hips stutter forward, rutting idly against him and aggravating the welts he has left in sensitive skin.

" _Yes_." Hamilton arches back, welcoming the slick drag of the cock between his thighs. "Yes, you hurt me. You're a complete _brute_."

Washington hums a hot, approving sound. "I can't seem to help myself. You bring out the worst sort of monster in me, Alexander."

Hamilton's breath hitches. His own cock is every bit as hard as Washington's, and he burns to be taken.

"Whatever will I do with you?" Washington asks, arm loosening and hands beginning to wander.

And oh, there are so many possibilities. So many ways Washington could have him in the time they possess. So many variations on the pleasure they can give each other.

One path in particular stands out bright as a signal fire in Hamilton's mind. A desire that eclipses all others and leaves him suddenly breathless. He forces his body to stillness—resists the urge to keep rolling his hips to encourage Washington's leisurely thrusts—and deliberately stiffens his back into an uninviting line.

"You will unhand me," he says in a voice that trembles audibly, "and let me out of this bed."

Unlike the first time he played his hand this way, Hamilton is not at all fearful his demand will be taken at face value. They understand each other too well—even that first time it turned out he had nothing to fear—and Washington _will not stop_ unless Hamilton uses one of their agreed upon signals.

Hamilton has no intention of using those signals now.

He is not disappointed. After only a moment's pause, Washington asks in a voice gone cold with threat, "Is that so?"

Instead of answering, Hamilton moves toward the edge of the bed, extricating himself from the blankets and making every appearance of intending to stand.

He doesn't get far before Washington reaches after him, capturing his wrist in a painful grip and using the leverage to drag him back down. Hamilton gasps as the fingers around his bruised wrist tighten cruelly, and he tries without success to twist free. The casual show of strength makes his heart soar, even as he tries harder to escape—as he wriggles toward the edge of the bed, making a more determined bid or freedom.

"Let _go_ of me," he snarls. But his attempt to wrench free only puts more strain on his already aching wrist, and he whimpers as Washington presses in closer along his spine and twists the whole arm sharply behind Hamilton's back.

"There's no point fighting me." Washington growls the words directly into his ear, punctuating the statement with a stinging bite. "You're no match for me, Alexander. You cannot stop me from taking what I want."

"I'll scream," Hamilton gasps, ragged and hungry. "Help will come."

Washington laughs, and it's a deliciously cruel sound. "Do you think so? Do you really think _anyone_ will come to your rescue?" Washington's cock slips wetly between trembling thighs. His hips and stomach rub hot against Hamilton's abraded flesh.

Hamilton catches his lower lip between his teeth and stifles a moan.

Washington chuckles more softly. "No, Alexander. No one will come. And if they do, they'll take one look at you and want a piece for themselves."

Hamilton gasps aloud at the idea—the raw humiliation of what Washington is suggesting.

"Should I allow it?" Washington asks, grinding more deliberately against him. "Should I give you over to them? Tell them to do as they please?"

" _Oh god_ ," Hamilton breathes. He knows Washington doesn't mean it—his general is far too possessive to allow anyone else near him—but the threat ignites a fresh cannonade of heat beneath his skin just the same. " _No_. You can't! Sir, please—"

"Then what will you do for me, Alexander? Will you stop fighting me? Will you spread your legs and be good?"

" _Yes_ ," Hamilton groans.

But when Washington's hold on him loosens, he makes one final bid for escape.

He does not get far.

Washington must be expecting the attempt, because he moves instantly to pursue. Strong hands grab hold, drag Hamilton back down onto the bed and force him onto his back. Washington climbs easily on top of him, straddling his hips, pinning Hamilton's wrists. They are both breathing hard.

Hamilton tries without success to throw Washington's weight off him. Even the attempt is laughable, and his face burns, his blood rushing louder in his ears. He will never tire of the ease with which Washington can overpower him.

"You lied to me," Washington observes, disapproval heavy in his tone.

"Please," Hamilton breathes. "Oh God, please let me go. Don't do this—" Quick as a thought, Washington twists Hamilton's arms higher so that he can trap both wrists in one strong hand. The other hand drops to cover Hamilton's mouth, silencing him abruptly.

Arousal shudders violently through him. He is overwhelmed, desperate for every harsh word, desperate for the wild heat in Washington's eyes.

There is affection glinting behind the threatening glare—fondness that runs too deep for Washington to mask it beneath this violent facade—but Hamilton doesn't mind.

He craves the illusion of humiliation, the brutal violation that is coming. He needs this, and he can't fathom what he's done to deserve the impossible and contradictory general who owns his heart. A man willing to hurt him, use him, debase him in all the ways Hamilton needs…

And yet who cherishes him—who makes Alexander feel truly safe for the first time in his entire frantic life.

"I will gag you if I must." Washington quirks one perfect eyebrow. "Do not try my patience."

Hamilton rears back and tries to bite the silencing hand, but Washington's reflexes are honed sharp. He withdraws just fast enough to avoid the snap of teeth. And if Hamilton did not know his general so very well, he might mistake the flash of feeling in those dark eyes for genuine anger.

The illusion is enough to make his cock twitch against his thigh.

A moment of complete stillness passes between them, Washington staring down at him, Hamilton staring back with every emotion writ bright across his face. His pulse is running panic-fast in his veins, his heart beating giddily behind his ribs. He twists his wrists, but there's no give at all in the vice-like hold.

"S— Sir?" He's shaking now, and his voice trembles in his throat.

Without letting go of the pinned wrists, Washington draws his free hand back and slaps Hamilton across the face.

The blow lands _hard_ , knocking Hamilton's head to the side with the force of impact. He tastes blood where his teeth catch the inside of his lip. Grunts a startled sound, not quite a whimper. His eyes sting as tears gather in the corners. He's shaking harder now. His cock is so stiff it hurts.

He squeezes his eyes shut, compelling the tears to fall. He's listening for it, and so he hears the sharp inhale from his general. _Good_. He flinches at the tightening grip around his wrists.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, a desperate hiss of sound. "I'm _sorry_ , please— Fuck, please don't hurt me."

He gasps aloud when a fist closes tight in his hair and _yanks_ , wrenching his head back.

"Look at me, Alexander."

Hamilton shakes his head—or at least, he tries to—and keeps his eyes shut. It's the only rebellion he can manage.

"I said _look at me_ ," Washington thunders, and the fist clenches so hard in his hair that Hamilton cries out.

His eyes open of their own volition, and he finds himself meeting the hungry maelstrom of his general's stare. For a moment he can't breathe past the beauty of the sight. When his lungs drag in new air, it hits him too fast and leaves him lightheaded.

Washington's gaze is steady as stone. " _Do not_ presume to beg me for mercy." The gravel of his voice sends delighted shivers down Hamilton's spine. "I will hurt you if I want. I will _take you_ how I want. I will fuck you however I please, and when I finish you will _thank me_."

"No," Hamilton groans in dwindling protest.

" _Yes_ ," Washington snarls. And then his hands are moving, shifting their brutal hold as his weight lifts—not enough for Hamilton to escape—but enough for Washington to wrench resisting legs wide apart and force the naked bulk of his body into the space between.

" _No_!" Hamilton bucks violently beneath him, to no effect at all. It's a feat keeping his voice low. God how he wishes he did not have to be _quiet_. He would cry aloud if he could. He would shout, curse, plead for help that will not come. He would lose himself so completely in the fantasy that all else would fade, and every moment would be _glorious_.

It is _still_ glorious. It is force and hunger and the vicious weight of Washington's broad hands holding him down—spreading him wider—putting Hamilton exactly where he pleases.

 _Yes_ , Hamilton's heart screams as Washington's weight crushes him into the mattress. 

" _Stop_ ," he pants aloud, twisting beneath his general, fighting ineffectually to get free. "Let— Let me go, you can't do this!"

Washington slaps him again—casually, heavily, _carelessly_ —and Hamilton's head snaps to the other side. His neck twinges; he's going to be stiff as hell today.

He is still reeling from the blow when Washington's cock nudges at his entrance. There's slickness there, not just the dry scrape of the head trying to force past resisting muscle, but oil to ease the way. Even so Hamilton can feel a wild rush of anticipation building at the base of his spine. He's sore from last night, and there will be ample pain alongside the pleasure of being fucked. There's a cry forming in his throat, but he chokes it back. He doesn't trust himself to keep quiet—and though the house is empty around them, the outside walls are not as thick as he might wish.

Washington seems to sense his difficulty. And though the movements are not at all gentle, there's care in the fact that he finds the nearest scrap of fabric—Hamilton's own cravat discarded over the bedpost last night—and shoves as much of it as will fit past parted lips.

Hamilton thrashes, wedging his arms between their chests. He shoves with all his strength and does not move Washington a single goddamn inch.

When Washington fucks brutally into him, the cloth in his mouth is the only thing that contains Hamilton's wild shout of ecstasy and pain.

Washington gives him no time to adjust to the intrusion. Simply ruts in harder, dragging Hamilton down the unrelenting length even as he rams his cock forward, driving as deep as he can go. Hamilton tries to twist away, but he's pinned too securely, filled too completely. His ass aches, throbbing around the invasive line of his general's cock. Washington is panting hard, chest rising and falling beneath the useless push of Hamilton's palms.

Hamilton keeps right on struggling, but it's as though he's not even trying. He is completely at Washington's mercy, his body trembling around the cock spearing him open. He is incapable of voicing the scream careening through his chest. Helpless beneath his general's powerful frame.

It's the most perfect feeling in the world. 

Then Washington _moves_. Just a roll of his hips at first, jostling his cock where it's buried in Hamilton's body. He draws back a moment later—draws almost all the way out—before slamming his hips forward so hard the entire bed shakes. Hamilton _keens_ into the gag, and the fight bleeds out of him. He wants this too desperately to keep resisting, and he grunts—pain and pleasure both—when Washington repeats the maneuver. Filling him, fucking him, jolting him hard against the mattress.

Washington sets a ruthless rhythm, leaving Hamilton no choice but to hang on for the ride.

It goes on for what feels like hours, though there is still no hint of sun through the window at the other side of the room.

Hamilton comes. And when the world settles back into focus, Washington is still fucking him, ignoring the way Hamilton's over-sensitized body tries to shy instinctively away. Everything aches, from his exhausted muscles to the pounding rhythm still ramming deep inside him.

He clings to Washington's shoulders, moaning purely from discomfort now. His voice is still muffled by the gag, broken into staccato patterns by every relentless thrust. His eyes roll back in his head, and he can't get enough air. There are tears sliding freely down his face now. He thinks Washington is saying his name—might even be praising him—but it's impossible to perceive anything clearly past the pain ringing through his body.

When Washington spends, he does so with his face buried against Hamilton's throat. He bites down hard at the junction of neck and shoulder, silencing his shout and gifting Hamilton a bruise that will last even longer than the others. Hamilton chokes on a cry of agony as a final, vicious thrust forces the full length of Washington's cock inside him—penetrating and pinning him—as deep as physically possible. He's grateful for the fabric stuffed into his mouth, because surely the whole camp would have heard him otherwise.

They cling to each other in shivering stillness during the quiet that follows. Washington's breath steadies out slowly, hot over Hamilton's skin. Several seconds pass before he draws back, cock easing from Hamilton's body. Despite his obvious care, Hamilton whimpers as the softening length slips free.

A moment later and Washington tugs the ruined cravat from his mouth.

Hamilton licks dry lips and whispers, "Thank you, sir."

Washington huffs a noiseless laugh and drops to the mattress beside him. Hamilton has only a split second to bemoan the loss of contact before Washington drags him closer, tugging him to lie across Washington's chest. Strong hands touch him gently now, threading through his sweat-soaked hair, rubbing his back in calming circles. Familiar tenderness. Hamilton's heart swells and his throat tightens with feeling.

"Talk to me, Alexander."

Hamilton draws a slow breath, gathering himself. Easing down by degrees. There's no worry in Washington's voice. Only familiar caution. Warmth. Fondness.

"I'm all right," he says anyway. He stretches up to press a kiss to Washington's jaw. "I'm perfect. _You_ were perfect." There's a thrum of contentment settling beneath his skin. He wishes they didn't have urgent work to do—a war to fight—an army to lead. He wants nothing more than to stay right here in this bed.

Washington hums softly. "I was far too rough. Last night, and now this? I've ruined you for the entire day."

"No." Hamilton kisses Washington again, this time at the base of his throat. "I'll be able to work." He will relish the distraction of discomfort, but it won't stop him from accomplishing what he needs to.

Washington twines his fingers in Hamilton's hair and uses the grip to tug him up for a slow kiss.

"I'm _fine_ ," Hamilton says when Washington releases him. He settles his head once more on his general's chest, where he can hear the steadying heartbeat directly in his ear. "I only wish…" He bites his tongue. He has no complaints. Washington has not left him unsatisfied in any way.

But those three words are enough to pique the general's curiosity, and it's no surprise when he presses, "What do you wish, Alexander?"

Hamilton bites his lower lip, considering. There's no reason _not_ to admit what he is thinking.

"I wish we did not have to be _quiet_ ," he confesses at last. "I wish we could go somewhere. _Anywhere_ , so long as it's far from people. Somewhere you would not need to gag me for fear of discovery."

Washington is silent a long time, but he doesn't stop rubbing the same soothing circles into Hamilton's back. He doesn't seem troubled by the suggestion. Merely pensive.

"It would be nice," Washington finally allows, and every word is gentle. "I think I would very much like to hear you scream."

**Author's Note:**

> I also hang out **[over on Dreamwidth](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/)** if that is a place anyone still goes. In the rare instance I'm inspired to post things that aren't fic--or participate in wider fandom happenings--that's where you'll find me. :D


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